3
When it came to business affairs there were many adjectives that could be used to describe Xiong Liu – ruthless, unscrupulous, heartless, ambitious, persistent, aggressive. He had accepted as a young man that all these traits would be necessary if he were to succeed in the cut throat world of international commerce. They were values to be encouraged, nurtured, values to be proud of. Now that he was influential, now that he had managed to pull his family out of rural poverty, now that he was powerful and rich, he had no intention of changing tactics.
He stood at the door to one of his local emporiums, dressed in a flashy dark suit, with a green silk shirt and a bright yellow tie, with mirrored sunglasses on his head like a silver hairband. When he saw the two men arrive he motioned that they follow him through the store to his office cum warehouse at the back of the premises. As he walked proudly along the aisles of bright plastic junk, pointing at this and that, he resembled the early white traders in Africa, selling baubles to the ignorant and fascinated natives in return for their most valuable goods.
The men had come for their money. But they had not completed the job. They tried to explain. Excuses. They would receive payment, as always, on completion of the assigned task. That was final.
Xiong Liu’s face was expressionless, unfathomable. By choice he was a man of few words, as his profession demanded. But what he was thinking was that he wanted those premises, it was a prime spot, and the old man was wasting everybody’s time. He was a fool, a failure. Worse, he was a romantic. He made things of the past, things nobody was interested in anymore. Let him roll over and die.
On completion. But wait for instructions. Go now.
4
Ted Turnbull went to the police who were sympathetic. They would do what they could, which meant a visit, some photos, some paperwork. Broken pottery was not high on their list of priorities, and although Ted had his suspicions, they were no more than that. Until hard evidence was found it was best to let the insurance company take over, which meant a visit, some photos, some paperwork. And a serious doubt about the ‘acts of vandalism’ opt out clause. So Ted cleaned up the mess and went back to work. He needed more clay, but his usual contact was unable to supply him any longer, claiming that it was more trouble than it was worth. He cast around for another source, but as only the best would do for Ted Turnbull, he had to look farther afield to find what he wanted, and the transport costs would mean upping his prices once more. There was nothing he could do; he would have to abandon all but the highest quality ceramics, and see how long he could resist. He could feel the rope tighten around his neck.
5
Xiong Liu was waiting for My Old China Shop to fall like a ripened plum. He had chased off Ted’s supplier, he had spoken to the transport companies, and he had stuffed his own shop windows full of cheap ceramics, from plant pots to hand painted figures. Very soon now that property would be his. There was no remorse, no sympathy, no sentimentality. Xiong Liu had won; it was as simple as that. Mr. Turnbull had had his day, now he was finished, obsolete. The things he had created and was so proud of meant nothing to anyone anymore, were only museum pieces, extremely fragile, and once broken only fit for the bin.
He knew he would not need to send the men back to finish their business. It was just a question of time. Time for Ted Turnbull to beseech the local council once more about the never-to-be museum, time for his remaining stock to run out, time for the overheads to weigh him down. Time for Mr. Turnbull to accept, if not defeat, at least early retirement.
6
A few months later Xiong Liu, accompanied by his sister and his brother-in-law, entered the empty premises. There was dust everywhere, and scraps of cardboard littered the floor. They would strip it all down, throw out the old counter and shelves, change the lighting, give it a lick of paint, and stack it full of the imported knick knacks that sold so well. He picked his way towards the old office, trying not to soil his shiny new boots. On Ted Turnbull’s desk was a parcel, perfectly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It read: For the new owner. Xiong Liu examined it carefully, almost as if it were a booby trap. What was this? A present? A joke? Some kind of revenge? He showed it to his family, who urged him to open it. Very slowly he untied the string and folded back the wrapping. Inside was a hand written note, a small white dish no larger than a saucer, and a plasticised card. Baffled, he handed the note and card to his sister who read English a lot better than he did.
The note read: Please accept this small gift. It is, in my opinion, the most valuable object in the collection.
The card read: This small, white, bone china dish was found in a London sewer in 1973. It was made in Stilbury by Baliley’s and Sons aprrox. 1810-1820. How it came to end up in a sewer, and how it managed to survive unscathed for so long is a mystery. Still legible around the rim is the legend - You and I are Earth.
Xiong Liu picked up the dish and examined it. You and I are Earth. Then he flung back his head and laughed until tears came to his eyes.
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